Palm Beach Taboo (Charlie Crawford Palm Beach Mysteries Book 10)

by Tom Turner

  Petrie nodded. “Yes, from the moment I first heard about it. I don’t know who, though. But I have a couple of guesses.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not going to say.”

  “Why not?” Crawford asked. “I assume you don’t want the killer on the loose.”

  “Yes, but I just don’t want to speculate without any proof whatsoever.”

  “Hey, look, Mr. Petrie, it’s just between us. We’re not going to tell anyone,” Ott promised.

  “No, sorry.”

  “How long were you in SOAR, Mr. Petrie?” Crawford asked.

  “From the beginning,” Petrie said. “I was one of the four originals. Lucian—I never could bring myself to call him Crux; it sounded so, so… I don’t know, grandiose.” He chuckled. “No, pretentious is a better word. Anyway, it was Lucien, Louise Bourne, Marie-Claire Fournier and me.”

  “Tell us about all of them, please, starting with Neville,” Crawford said.

  And for the next twenty minutes, Petrie rambled on.

  He started by explaining that Neville and he had been best friends in college but, in the last few years, had kind of drifted apart. When Crawford asked why, Petrie explained that Neville seemed to increasingly lavish his time and attention on people who were rich and could advance the cause of SOAR, adding, “And that certainly was not me.” Then he went on to explain how when Neville’s father moved his family to New York City from New Zealand, Neville was only twelve. It was the summer and Neville’s parents were able to fast-track their son into a prominent private school in Manhattan called Buckley. The headmaster was impressed that Neville never earned less that an A, not even an A-, in his prior three years of school in Auckland. Neville spent one year at Buckley—again achieving nothing but straight As— then moved to a school in Connecticut called Hotchkiss when he was fourteen.

  His father, despite making a hefty salary at the bank that had recruited him, was wildly extravagant and a total stranger to the concept of saving money. He also was a closet gambler who went on three-day poker binges to London, Las Vegas, and Nassau casinos. He looked down his nose at the nearer Atlantic City casinos, even though they were just down the road, Petrie explained with a shrug.

  Then, when Lucian was sixteen and a sophomore at Hotchkiss, two life-shattering events occurred simultaneously. One, his father lost over a million dollars in an all-night poker session at the Grosvenor-St. Giles casino in London, and two, and far worse, financial advisors at his father’s bank were accused of engaging in fraudulent and illegal conduct, including misappropriation of client funds and charging fees to thousands of clients without providing them with extra services. Henry Neville was never personally charged with any of the crimes, but it didn’t matter: those offenses had happened on his watch. He was summarily fired, and the bank paid a forty-five-million-dollar fine that went toward customer compensation.

  Lucian never made it back to Hotchkiss for his junior year. His father informed him that he could no longer afford the expensive tuition, even though he secretly continued to gamble recklessly. Lucian ended up going to Eleanor Roosevelt High School in Manhattan. The only good thing about it, Crux had told Petrie, was that it was only ten minutes from his parents’ co-op apartment. Lucian’s grades slipped and he ended up with a B average. He had little interest in going to college anymore, but his parents pressured him. He was fortunate to get a scholarship to McGill University in Montreal based on his unusually high IQ of 150, not his grades at Eleanor Roosevelt High. McGill was where he met both Petrie and Marie-Claire Fournier, who became his girlfriend and, not insignificantly, his meal ticket.

  Crawford glanced at Ott. “So, I don’t know about you, but I have a million questions.”

  Ott nodded and held out his hand. “After you.”

  “So, Marie-Claire Fournier. I understand she died at around fifty years old. Seemed to be in good health one minute, dead the next.”

  Petrie shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you? Supposedly, an aneurism. Do I agree with you that it seemed suspicious? Yes, I agree with you it did seem suspicious.”

  “But what was the reaction of other SOAR members?” Crawford asked.

  “Just that… you know, it was sad and unfortunate. And that she’d be sorely missed.”

  Ott leaned toward Petrie. “But nobody suggested it seemed fishy? No one was suspicious about her death?”

  “Not really. It was more like everyone was all concerned about what was going to happen to SOAR.”

  “You mean because it’s major benefactor was dead?

  “Exactly.”

  “But then along came the Melhados.” Crawford said.

  “I’m impressed,” said Petrie. “You men have done a lot of homework already.”

  “Mr. Petrie, you recommended, when you called, that we speak to Cressida because ‘she knew where the bodies are buried’… That’s an interesting figure of speech. What exactly did you mean?”

  “I just meant that there’s always someone in any group or organization—a very observant person usually—who knows just about everything that goes on. Cressida’s one, Vega’s another.”

  Crawford tapped the name Vega into his iPhone. “Vega? That name hasn’t come up before.”

  “It will.”

  Crawford nodded. “Were you and Mr. Lalley friends?”

  “Yes, we were. I even saw him a few times after I dropped out of SOAR. He was a good man, but not without flaws.”

  “We did briefly speak to Cressida last night. She told us Christian used to be number two at SOAR, right behind Crux,” Ott said. “So, two questions: what specifically did Lalley do, meaning what was his specific job, and two, why did he ‘used to be’ number two… and not anymore?”

  That was actually Crawford’s next question.

  Petrie leaned back in his chair. “Christian was the treasurer of SOAR. He had been a CPA in his former life, so he was kind of a natural... except he wasn’t.”

  “What do you mean?” Ott asked.

  “After the Melhados joined and brought their billions—”

  “Billions?” Ott said, astonished.

  “Well, maybe just a mere one billion. Anyway, Christian was kind of out of his league with all that money to handle. So that was why he got demoted. Plus, Crux was always making changes in the … let’s call it, ‘hierarchy.’ He liked us to be a little insecure, a little unsure of exactly where we stood. One congregant, who shall go nameless, came up with the perfect nickname.”

  “What was that?”

  “Crux in flux.”

  Six

  Turned out that Simon Petrie didn’t want an undercover cop parked across the street after all. He didn’t give a reason. Crawford said they’d check back in with him every day and make sure everything was all right. Best Crawford could tell, since leaving SOAR, Petrie had led a life of isolation.

  Crawford had called Lucian Neville before the Petrie interview and asked him to set aside the afternoon for Ott and him to interview the other thirty-four members of SOAR who lived in the other four houses. Neville had been cooperative and told Crawford that he would instruct all of his members to come to his house at 1500 North Lake Way.

  Ott and he were headed there now.

  Ott had been silent for most of the ride, which was a bad sign. It usually meant he had been thinking, but not necessarily about the case. If he was focused on the case, he’d be talking about it. Theorizing, conjecturing, spitballing, and throwing stuff at the wall.

  “You know, Charlie, I’ve been thinking.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “About Bosch. The TV show Bosch and the guy Bosch.”

  “Okay. What about ’em?”

  “Well, for one thing, I think him liking jazz is kinda lame.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Ott scratched the side of his head. “’Cause it’s like… old news. I’ve seen it before. A detective who likes jazz, I mean. Off the top of my head I can remember at least
two others.”

  Crawford chuckled and shook his head. “I can’t believe we’re actually having a literary discussion.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Ott said, gazing out the window. “Actually three, now that I think about it. Walter Mosely, Ian Rankin, and Lawrence Block.”

  “All wrote about detectives who liked jazz, you mean?”

  “Yeah, Block’s guy is Matt Scudder; Rankin’s is Inspector Rebus; and Mosely’s…ah, I forget.”

  “And Michael Connelly’s the Bosch guy, right?”

  “Duh.”

  “So, I guess the question is, who came first… the first detective who liked jazz?”

  “Yes, that’s the question,” Ott said, pulling out his iPhone. “Google time.”

  Ott clicked and scrolled for a few moments. “Well, now, isn’t that interesting. Rankin came out with Inspector Rebus in 1987 and...” He scrolled more “Mosely wrote his guy… Easy Rawlins in 1990. Devil in the Blue Dress.” More clicking and scrolling. “Michael Connelly came out with his first Bosch book in…1992.”

  “So, I’d call it a tie.”

  “I’d call it Ian Rankin, by a nose.”

  Crawford shrugged. “Okay, but what about Lawrence Block?”

  “I already saw him when I was scrolling. He’s actually the oldest of all of them but was the Johnny-come-lately with his jazz-loving cop. 2011, to be exact. The book I was thinking of is called The Night and the Music.”

  “So, Ian Rankin it is, I guess.”

  Ott nodded as Crawford hit his blinker for the house at 1500 North Lake Way and drove in. “That was pretty good, huh?”

  “Pretty good what?” Crawford asked.

  “Pretty good way to kill a boring, ten-minute drive.”

  One of the other things Simon Petrie told them about was the SOAR hierarchy. Specifically, that people switched around between the five SOAR houses, the objective being to ultimately land a bedroom in Crux’s house, which was known as Elysium. Petrie said Christian Lalley had lived in the same house as Crux until six months ago, when he was unceremoniously banished to 1450 North Lake Way, which seemed to be a house tenanted by those least favored by Crux.

  Crawford pushed the doorbell at 1500 North Lake Way. A few moments later, a beautiful, short-haired blonde woman opened the door and smiled up at Ott and him. “Welcome to Elysium, gentlemen.”

  Crawford remembered seeing her a few times at Green’s, his breakfast and lunch go-to.

  “Thanks,” Crawford said, “I’m Detective Crawford and this is my partner, Detective Ott.”

  “Nice to meet you both, I’m Capella.”

  Crawford felt reasonably certain that was the name of either a star or some celestial body in outer space.

  She took a second look at Ott. “You’re the guy who always has a mushroom omelet and those big squishy sausages at Green’s.”

  “Breakfast of champions, ma’am,” Ott said.

  She glanced at Crawford. “And you…scrambled eggs?”

  Crawford nodded. “And, occasionally, a stack.”

  She laughed. “Come on in, Crux is expecting you.” She turned, walked into the foyer, and they followed.

  She led them through a large, lavishly appointed living room, dominated by gold and silver furnishings, and into a room beyond. It was a library with floor to ceiling bookshelves on all four walls. Crux, with a book in hand, was sitting in a throne-like chair that faced two nondescript chairs. Crux’s seat was made of hand-carved mahogany and had cherubic faces staring out from the heavy wooden arms and intricate carvings on the front legs as well as the upper back, which loomed high above his head. Crux was leaning against the chair’s tufted, black leather back, which looked quite comfortable.

  “Welcome, gentleman,” Crux said, setting his book down on a side table and gesturing for them to sit facing him.

  Crawford noticed the book was a Churchill biography. Crux’s role model, maybe?

  They sat and Crawford observed that his own chair was unusually low. He flashed to something he had once either read or heard about a king wanting his visitors or subjects to feel insignificant facing him. It was certainly an equalizer, as his own six-foot-three frame faced the five-foot-six Crux from below. Capella remained standing.

  “Thanks for seeing us,” Crawford began. “This will probably take most of the afternoon.”

  Crux nodded. “How do you want to do it? As I said, all the members you haven’t spoken to are either here or on their way.”

  “Sounds good. What we’d first like to do is speak to all of your congregants as a group; then my partner and I can interview them one by one.”

  Crux glanced at Capella. “Would you usher them all into the living room. We’ll do it there.”

  Capella nodded and walked out of the library.

  “So, have you had any further thoughts,” Crawford asked, “who might’ve killed Christian Lalley?”

  “You call ’em perps, right?”

  “Well, that’s more a TV-movie thing.”

  Crux’s right hand started to fidget on the head of the cherub carved into the arm of his chair. “I know you think it was someone in my congregation but, the reality is, no one here has any kind of a history of violence or hostility. If they did, they wouldn’t be here.”

  “So, before your members are allowed to join SOAR, you vet them pretty thoroughly?” Ott asked.

  “Absolutely. Like I’m sure the police department does before accepting new police officers,” Crux said. “But I guess there are always bad apples. By the way, here’s something I found out: the back door at fourteen-fifty was left unlocked.”

  “Oh, really,” Crawford sad. “Why?”

  “Because the congregants there felt there was no threat from the outside world. See, there’s a twelve-foot wall on the property line on the sides. Pretty much impossible to get over that.”

  Crawford nodded as Capella walked back in. “All set,” she told Crux.

  Crux nodded at her. “Before we begin, I thought I’d give you gentlemen a tour of Elysium. Not that it’s relevant to the case…just thought you might like to see it.”

  “Absolutely, we would like to see it,” Crawford said.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Ott, “let’s have a look.”

  Crawford figured the more he knew about Crux, SOAR, and their houses, the better.

  The three stood and Crux reached for a black cane with a gold carved knob leaning against the side table. It definitely seemed like a scepter to Crawford. Pretty bogus, he thought.

  Capella led them over to an elevator. She pushed the button and it opened. They walked inside and there was plenty of room to spare. It looked to be about eight feet high inside.

  “You could fit half a football team in here,” Ott said.

  Crux chuckled. “Just about.”

  All four walls were sheathed in rich mahogany and an art nouveau chandelier hung from the lift’s ceiling.

  The elevator stopped at the third floor. They got out and walked down a corridor. The floors were a dark brown herringbone and three more art nouveau chandeliers hung from the ceilings at fifteen-foot intervals.

  “Beautiful floors,” Crawford said.

  “Thank you,” Crux said, opening a door and walking into a bedroom. It was massive, Crawford guessed about twenty by thirty, and dominated by an oversized canopy bed in the center. The canopy looked like a tapestry from a medieval European castle with four intricately carved wood columns supporting it.

  “Wow,” Ott said, “I’d need GPS to get around in that bed.”

  It occurred to Crawford how strange it was, being given a tour of Crux’s bedroom. It felt way too personal.

  He imagined Crux a mere speck in the bed.

  Crux pointed at the bed. “I got it from a place in St. Petersburg, Russia. The man who sold it to me said it was Catherine the Great’s but… I’m not so sure I buy that.”

  Crawford turned and saw the Intracoastal waterway off in the distance and two boats going in op
posite directions. “Quite a view,” he said, noticing a telescope facing the Intracoastal.

  “Yes, the other day I saw Tiger Wood’s boat going north.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Ott. “The Privacy. It’s a hundred fifty-five feet long. He lives up on Jupiter Island. Little known fact… Greg Norman, who lives there too, has an even bigger one.”

  Crux turned to him. “Oh, yeah? How big?”

  “I don’t remember exactly but over two hundred feet.”

  Capella, who so far hadn’t said a word, spoke. “How big’s the one you’re looking at, sir?”

  This was the first time anyone had addressed Crux as “sir.”

  “A little over two-fifty…with a helicopter pad. But it’s not a done deal yet, and I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it.”

  As he led them out, Crawford noticed several doors on either side of the bedroom. He was glad Crux had skipped his bathroom. Again, there was something personal about a bathroom—even more so than a bedroom. Crawford didn’t want to see Crux’s toothbrush or razor. Nevertheless, he imagined a lot of Carrera marble, top-of-the-line fixtures and, no doubt about it, a bidet.

  They made their way back toward the elevator.

  “There are other bedrooms up here, right?” Crawford asked.

  “Yes, one on either side of mine,” Crux said.

  As they walked down the hallway, Crawford looked to his left into one of the bedrooms. It was about half the size of Crux’s and also had a lot of doors. One was open and looked to be a large walk-in closet with women’s clothes in it.

  They got back in the elevator and Crux pushed B. The elevator descended.

  “I’m going to skip the second floor. Just a lot of smaller bedrooms there,” Crux said.

  “How many in all?” Ott asked.

  Crux glanced at Capella. “How many?”

  “Four,” she said.

  The elevator stopped at B.

  “I figure you guys will like this,” Crux said, then glanced at Crawford. “Looks like you work out?”

  “Yeah, a little,” Crawford said, “but my partner here’s a total gym rat.”